I'm not the one who finishes beauty. I make the room where beauty can dwell. What I make isn't fine art, and it isn't just housewares — it's a ‘usable object’ with time working inside it. That's the work.

A piece of log, good for nothing at all. Could something start again even in there? I think of what I make as seeds of time. One leaves my hands, reaches someone, and slowly opens inside their days. I'm rooting for it from here.